


Comrades, Partners, Friends

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-05
Updated: 2004-11-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 08:53:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7095157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short prequel of sorts to "Consolation Prize."  Spike and Wes know how to ease the pain.  Friendship fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comrades, Partners, Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

Comrades, Partners, Friends. 

~*~

Wesley stared at the attractive blonde across from him for a moment, and then took a meditative sip of his drink. “I’m not drunk enough yet,” he said with disappointment, and his companion shrugged.

“Well, I’m about four drinks behind ya, luv, so you’re a good sight drunker than I am,” he said. “Besides, you’re human.”

“I’m well aware of that, Spike,” Wesley told him dryly. “Otherwise my throat wouldn’t feel like I’d swallowed a handful of razors.”

Spike’s indifferent expression altered to one of concern. “Y’okay, mate?”

“Well enough to keep drinking,” Wesley said, and suited action to word. When Spike followed suit, draining his own class, Wesley poured him another and pushed it across the table.

“Keep drinking,” he said.

~*~

Spike stared down at the glass he was currently rotating between his calloused palms. “We aren’t having a particularly good run of luck with women at the moment, are we?” Wes asked him, and he sighed gustily.

“Oh hell no,” he agreed. “I’ve got a girl who hates me and fucks me to feel alive, an’ you’ve don’t got the girl because she fell for your best friend instead.” He lifted his glass high, said, “Cheers, mate,” and drained it.

Wesley followed suit.

~*~

“Are you as hungover as I am?” Wesley wanted to know. His hair was wet from his shower and he looked overall more alert than he had when he’d rolled off the couch this morning, but his eyes were still bloodshot.

Spike handed him a cup of very hot and very black coffee, and Wesley moaned in deep and reverent appreciation when he took a sip. “Dear God I’ve been in America too long, but this is heaven,” he said happily, and smiled at Spike. “I’m surprised you remember how I like it, however.”

“I’ve made you enough coffee for enough soddin’ hangovers to remember pretty damn well,” Spike grumbled. “It’s not exactly rocket science, and yes I’m as hungover as you are an’ you won’t be getting any thanks from me for it.”

“Going out to drink was your idea,” Wesley pointed out with his infernal logic. “I was content to stay home and mope, but you showed up fresh from Sunnydale with a bottle in one hand and money for more at the nearest pub in your other. You said that it was high time we went out to drink everything away for a while since I hadn’t seen you in months, and I- against my better judgment- agreed. Thus, it can be concluded that our hangovers are entirely your fault.”

“Fine,” Spike muttered. “All my fault. But I’m still hungover.”

“Drink some coffee,” Wesley told him, and sulkily he went to pour himself a cup.

They sat in silence for a while on the couch, meditatively sipping their respective cups of coffee. Wesley, as usual, was the one who broke the silence first.

“Want to go kill something?”

“Sure.”

~*~

They stared down at the dead demon that lay oozing dark green ichor at their feet. “That was easy,” Spike said with transparent disappointment.

“Rather boring,” Wesley agreed, and they looked at each other again.

“Want to go kill somethin’ else?”

“Of course.”

~*~

“We’ve had worse,” Spike argued. “There was that time when I figured out I was in love with the Slayer.”

“Ah yes,” Wesley said in a tone of reminiscence. “That time it took me four hours and the entire contents of my medical closet to get you mobile again.”

“Let’s not forget when you got fired by my ponce of a Sire,” Spike pointed out. “You weren’t exactly Mr. Good Health that night either.”

“You were the one who picked the fight with the Grevlacch demon,” Wesley said. “Not I.”

“I was doin’ it for you!” Spike protested, his voice going over to the melodramatic. “All for you, always for you, my dear love.”

“Are you drunk again?”

~*~

“You’re not gonna get up to see me off?” Spike wanted to know. He was standing in the doorway, his hands comfortably in his duster pockets. Wesley grinned at him

“You’ll be back soon,” he said. “No point in saying goodbye.”

“Nah,” Spike said. “Hate goodbyes anyway.” He took a step backward, as if he was about to leave, and then suddenly darted forward to wrap Wesley in a tight hug before he disappeared down the hall, faster than Wesley’s human eyes could quite follow.

Wesley listened to the echo of the slammed door and the footsteps retreating down the hall and he smiled a little, just a slight curling of the corners of his mouth.

“Yes,” he said to himself. “I hate goodbyes, too.”


End file.
